Mhor and Peter needed no further invitation. They sprang from the wall and in a few seconds presented themselves at the door of the sitting-room. Pamela shook hands with Mhor and patted Peter, and produced a box of chocolates. "I hope they're the kind you like?" she said politely. "I like any kind," said Mhor, "but specially hard ones. I don't suppose you have anything for Peter? A biscuit or a bit of cake? Peter's like me. He's always hungry for cake and _never_ hungry for porridge." Pamela, feeling extremely remiss, confessed that she had neither cake nor biscuits and dared not ask Miss Bathgate for any. "But you're bigger than Miss Bathgate," Mhor pointed out. "You needn't be afraid of her. I'll ask her, if you like." Pamela heard him cross the passage and open the kitchen door and begin politely, "Good morning, Miss Bathgate." "What are ye wantin' here wi' thae dirty boots?" Bella demanded. "I came in to see the Honourable, and she has nothing to give poor Peter to eat. Could he have a tea biscuit--not an Abernethy one, please, he doesn't like them--or a bit of cake?" "Of a' the impidence!" ejaculated Bella. "D'ye think I keep tea biscuits and cake to feed dowgs wi'? Stan' there and dinna stir." She put a bit of carpet under the small, dirty boots, and as she grumbled she wiped her hands on a coarse towel that hung behind the door, and reached up for a tin box from the top shelf of the press beside the fire. "Here, see, there's yin for yerself, an' the broken bits are for Peter. Here he comes snowkin'," as Peter ambled into the kitchen followed by Pamela. That lady stood in the doorway. "Do forgive me coming, but I love a kitchen. It is always the nicest place in the house, I think; the shining tins are so cheerful, and the red fire." She smiled in an engaging way at Bella, who, after a second, and, as it were, reluctantly, smiled back. "I see you have given the raider some biscuits," Pamela said. "He's an ill laddie." Bella Bathgate looked at the Mhor standing obediently on the bit of carpet, munching his biscuit, and her face softened. "He has neither father nor mother, puir lamb, but I must say Miss Jean never lets him ken the want o' them." "Miss Jean?" "He bides at The Rigs wi' the Jardines--juist next door here. She's no a bad lassie, Miss Jean, and wonderfu' sensible considerin'.... Are ye finished, Mhor? Weel, wipe yer feet and gang ben to the room an' let me get on wi' ma work." Pamela, feeling herself dismissed, took her guest back to the sitting-room, where Mhor at once began to examine the books piled on the table, while Peter sat himself on the rug to await developments. "You've a lot of books," said Mhor. "I've a lot of books too--as many as a hundred, perhaps. Jean teaches me poetry. Would you like me to say some?" "Please," said Pamela, expecting to hear some childish rhymes. Mhor took a long breath and began: